


my country forgets my name

by majesdane



Series: we tell our stories differently [4]
Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Minor Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn, POV Minor Character, Pre-Canon, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 13:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30022689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane
Summary: In the rec room, they eyed each other up. Traded insults. It was a ritual more than anything else.| A study of Libba Swythe.
Relationships: Abigail Bellweather & Libba Swythe
Series: we tell our stories differently [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1919194
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	my country forgets my name

o sweetheart / the realization a jolt in my throat / o sweetheart you believed in america  
— hala alyan, "post-election morning"

* * *

There were universal truths in the world.

Water was wet, the sky was blue, and Swythes and Bellweathers did _not_ get along.

It was a feud that had gone on for centuries now, stretching long throughout history. Before the idea of _America_ as a country even existed. Before Sarah Alder forsook ancient witch tradition and unleashed her Songs upon the world, establishing a military hierarchy and a safe haven in one fell swoop. It no longer mattered what _started_ the grudge — and certainly no one really remembered — it only mattered that it _did_ exist, as real as the very ground they walked on or the air they breathed.

At seven years old, Libba didn't understand that sort of bone-deep resentment. It hadn't yet had time to set in and fester. She'd heard _things_ — not so nice things, specifically — about the Bellweathers. But Abigail seemed nice enough, if a little haughty and bossy, when they played together during High Atlantic social events, ducking around trees in the forests, skirting immaculately manicured lawns, or chasing each other through tall hedge rows. 

Libba didn't — couldn't — understand until age thirteen, when Abigail "accidentally" upended an entire mug of punch all over Libba's robin's egg blue dress at her birthday party. Through a haze of embarrassment, Libba felt hot anger streaking through her like a comet. She gritted her teeth, forcing back tears, and smiled sweetly through Abigail's barely concealed smirk, her pathetic offerings at an apology.

It was a stupid, petty thing. But her blood boiled.

"See, Elizabeth," her mother said with measured patience as Libba quietly changed into another dress upstairs, having scampered away from the party as quickly as she could. "This is how Bellweathers are."

She stood behind Libba, resting her hands on her daughter's shoulders as they stared at their reflections in the floor length mirror beside Libba's expansive closet. "Let this be a lesson. They want to dominate you. To take what's yours from you — do you understand? That's why you need to make sure to take from _them_ first." 

Always strike first. The only way to survive.

Social events, politics, the heat of battle — what was the difference? Catch your opponent off-guard. Go for the throat. Make them bleed. 

It was the reason why, three years later, Libba knew exactly what to do when she spotted Oskar Windrose, Abigail's debut Cavalier, hovering awkwardly around the edges of the ornately decorated dance floor.

 _He_ meant nothing to her. Boys never did; not for girls like her. High Atlantics. She might feel affection for some of them, charming and sweet-natured as they are, but that was where her feelings ended. If they ever began at all. Attachments led to weakness. Romantic feelings were for less prestigious witches, the lower bloodlines who didn't care about upholding the military's standards.

Purity and loyalty; the reason matrilines like the Swythes had persevered for so long where others had not.

She danced with him, laughing as he twirled her around.

Over his shoulder, she could see Abigail glaring at them, looking flustered and _furious_ , hands clenched into fists at her sides. Libba met her gaze and held it, grinning, a tiny, cool thrill running down her spine.

 _Not so high and mighty now,_ she thought, pleased.

She was thirteen again, blushing, eyes stinging with tears. It has never gone away, the shame of being publicly humiliated. She has used that feeling to harden herself. She has taken it and sharpened it into a knife, a weapon to be wielded at her pleasure. 

Abigail's scowl deepened before she turned on her heel, stalking away.

Libba untangled herself from Oskar's arms, giving chase.

How could she not?

It was not enough to cut, to wound. A wounded, cornered enemy was more deadly than ever.

She threaded through the crowd, taking delight in the scandalized whispers and mutterings. They didn't bother her; she took pride in it. The Bellweather-Swythe saga was well known amongst the military, beyond even High Atlantic society. Goddess, Sarah Alder _herself_ probably encouraged it. This was just another entertaining chapter for others to gawk at and gossip about. 

Abigail was in the courtyard, slumped on the spiraling marble steps.

"There's no need to gloat," Abigail grumbled, when she heard the click of Libba's heels on the smooth stone. "It's unbecoming. You've already won."

"And I always will." Libba said smugly, flush with success.

Abigail turned.

"Just wait until we get to Fort Salem," she said in a calm, flat tone, rising to her feet. Even a step lower, she towered over Libba, casting her in shadow. "You'll see. Bellweathers always come out on top."

Abigail didn't look upset at all. She looked almost determined. Her smile was wry, her jawline set. In the bright moonlight, her deep mahogany eyes took on a shine like the glint of steel. And, for just a moment, Libba felt caught off-guard. She expected Abigail to be weak and simpering. She _wanted_ her to be like that. 

How foolish, to think it would be so easy.

*

When the time came, she said the words, the Swythe family braid pleated into her unruly curls on both sides of her head. 

She liked the way the medal sparked into existence, the product of ancient Work.

In her hand, the metal felt warm and encouraging. She pictured that spring evening outside the Bellweather mansion, locked in a stare with Abigail. She can remember the thrum of her heart and the way Abigail sounded so fierce and unyielding.

She was beautiful and marvelous, and if she were anyone else, Libba would have admired her.

But competition and hatred were the only feelings that had risen in her. 

_Bellweathers always come out on top._

Well.

This time, things would be different.

*

As fate would have it, they ended up in the same platoon for Basic.

Libba suspected that it was no accident. The military High Council oversaw all placements and who better to stick together than the last of two feuding bloodlines? Competition — friendly or otherwise — encouraged results. The news that all new cadets would be broken up until Units was a surprise, though. Libba could tell that Abigail was rattled, by the way her back stiffened and her mouth flattened into a hard, thin line. 

But Libba relished this new opportunity, the chance to prove her superiority. It was better than having to compete with Abigail one-on-one. She could mold her Unit to her own liking, drive them to the top of their platoon and all the way to War College. She could make Abigail look weak and inefficacious. 

She could — 

In the rec room, they eyed each other up. Traded insults. It was a ritual more than anything else; only for show; there was a silent, mutual understanding that empty words drew no blood. 

Libba couldn't be rattled by Abigail.

Not anymore.

*

"What's the deal with the Bellweather girl?" Delphine asked, fresh from the shower and toweling her hair as Libba stretched out on the lower bunk bed, limbs aching from another grueling week of training. "Why do you hate her so much?"

Delphine was from Maine. She had a runner's build — long, lanky — with soft, hazelnut eyes and shoulder-length jet black hair. She came from a matriline of Blasters. Her older sister was already on her third tour; she'd told Libba so with a grin on the first day they met, shaking hands with enthusiasm.

The third member of their Unit, Tabitha, was pale and freckled and only an inch or so taller than Libba. She kept her short chestnut hair pushed back. She and her cousin — who was four years older and stationed halfway across the world in Russia now — had grown up at Fort Salem after the death of her mother and aunt during a combat mission.

They both came from middling bloodlines, the kind of people who usually made it into War College but never got past low-level promotions. Far from the people that Libba had grown up around. But they were nice enough — and what's more, hard workers. Libba could respect that. Not everyone was born destined for greatness like High Atlantics. But putting in the effort to succeed — there was a kind of nobility in that.

"Our mothers hated each other in War College," Libba said, slowly sitting up. "It's a thing. Complicated."

"Bellweather is intense," Tabitha chimed in from the upper bunk. The bed creaked in protest as she rolled onto her side. "Though I'm sure I would be like that too if General Bellweather was _my_ mom." She peered curiously down at Libba over the edge of her bunk. "What's she like?"

"Who, the General?" Libba tried to picture Petra Bellweather in her mind. "She's . . ."

Libba thought of Petra, tall and imposing, the buttons and boots of her dress blues polished to perfection. The black sash draped across her front, littered with tiny charms — tokens of battles fought and family heirlooms. The line of medals on her chest. They had met many times throughout Libba's life, of course, but their past interactions had typically consisted of little more than a short, cursory greeting. Someone of Petra's rank hardly had time for a girl who wasn't yet even a Fort Salem cadet.

There was a coldness to Petra. Her smile never quite reached her eyes. Every interaction felt calculated. Libba can remember standing in front of her, just barely twelve, noticing the tiny, disapproving twitch to the corner of Petra's mouth. As if she'd assessed Libba right then and there and found her wanting.

"She reminds me of General Alder," Libba said, finally, because it was the only description she could think of that didn't sound snide. "She always has total command of the room, wherever she is. She makes you feel . . . " she searched for the words. "Like you want to be better."

That, at least, was the truth.

*

"The Bellweather Unit out-performed you during the Windshear exercise last week."

It wasn't _quite_ a reprimand, but it smarted anyway. Libba wondered how her mother even _knew_ about that. She had been halfway around the world for the past month doing US military outpost tours along the China-Russia border. 

"It won't happen again."

"I expect not," her mother said tersely. "You're a leader, Libba. It's _your_ name that takes the brunt of the embarrassment when your Unit fails. Do you understand?"

Libba bit the inside of her lip, fingers curled around the phone, gripping tight. Her mother only wanted her to succeed, she reminded herself. This wasn't the time to expect coddling. In a few months she would be in War College, where things would only get harder.

She grit her teeth. Straightened her shoulders a little more, as though her mother was in front of her right now. 

(And Libba almost wished she was, so that she might see Libba's resolve with her own eyes.)

"Yes ma'am. I won't let you down. I promise."

*

Days turn to weeks, weeks turn to months

Libba couldn't be more excited. It had been slow going at first, but eventually her Unit came together; they had improved in leaps and bounds since their first trembly months together. For the first time, Libba actually began to understand all the things her mother and aunts drilled into her growing up; about what it meant to lead, about how the trials of Basic hardened girls into women. 

Soon enough, May arrived, and with it came long-awaited gifts.

The first, in the form of Beltane, offered up bountiful pleasures. 

More importantly to Libba, though, May meant they were finally getting their scourges. 

She always liked watching her older cousins with their scourges. She remembers sitting on white-washed veranda steps, starry-eyed as her older relatives carried out drills on the sprawling lawn. The oiled leather, the sharp _crack_ as it whipped through the air, the heavy, Work-infused, knife-point stone slicing neatly through sawdust-filled practice dummies. There was an elegance to the way they were wielded. There was _power_ in it. Seeds were the most important tool for a witch's survival. But scourges were a vital tool for a soldier. 

They couldn't always count on Seeds; Anacostia reminded them of this the very first day of Basic.

But, in a rarity for Fort Salem, this time pleasure came before work.

Being a cadet at Fort Salem meant being deprived of certain . . . necessities. Beltane and the arrival of all the men put Libba in an unshakeable good mood. She didn't even mind when Abigail pointedly stole Augustine away from her. There were dozens of boys on base for the holiday and any one of them would do just fine.

Two, in particular, were more than willing to see to her needs. She lounged with them on the floor of her dorm room, pillows and blankets strewn about into a makeshift bed, the door rune-locked for privacy. Sweaty and flushed, she arched and sighed as they lavished kisses down the length of her body.

Goddess, Libba had _missed_ this. Flirting. Sex. 

However, it was the unexpected pleasures that Libba found most satisfying. Abigail getting violently and hilariously sideswiped by a training dummy during their first scourge session. Tally practically drooling over the handsome but dull — and engaged — Buttonwood. And then there was Raelle, made sulky by the arrival of the men, huffing and rolling her eyes the whole time, much to Abigail's obvious chagrin.

Raelle was besotted with a brunette a year ahead of them. The two were practically attached at the hip. She'd racked up more than a few demerits because of her. 

That suited Libba just fine.

She liked anything that put Abigail off her game. 

*

At the pre-Reel festivities the next afternoon, Libba parted ways with her Unit, leaving them to their own devices.

"See you later," Delphine called with a wave, as she and Tabitha made a beeline towards a group of pastel-suited boys, some of whom looked vaguely familiar.

Grabbing a mug of chilled, mulled wine, Libba took her time wandering around the grassy field on the west side of campus that'd been decked out in autumn-hued streamers and sky lanterns. In a few hours it would be dusk — and then Beltane would _properly_ begin.

"Hello," Glory said suddenly, as she fell into step beside Libba. "Looking forward to the Reel?"

Libba liked Glory. She wasn't the most skilled of their platoon, but she led her Unit well. After all, Libba hadn't forgotten that Glory had managed to secure her Unit a spot on the pageant visit, whereas Libba had not. The memory of that failure still stung. It was the first time Libba allowed a sliver of doubt to wedge itself into her brain.

After that, she'd re-doubled her efforts, even coaxing her Unit into doing extra drill training with her.

They settled down at a table along the tree line, relaxing in the later afternoon shade. It was only early May, but the day was unusually hot. Beneath her charcoal, shoulder-less jumpsuit, Libba felt her skin grow sticky with sweat. She truly could not wait to be rid of her clothing for the evening.

Glory looked radiant. She'd painted her hands and forearms with Henna, decorating them with a variety of old fertility runes and other symbols Libba didn't recognize. She wondered idly if it was a tradition from Glory's bloodline. All matrilines had their own special nuances — charms or braids or something else. 

Libba had always been quietly interested in that sort of thing. Traditions were the backbone of High Atlantic society.

She was about to ask, when suddenly she caught a glimpse of Raelle hurrying over to join her Unit. She was sporting a lovely black suit — jacket half-open to reveal her lack of clothing underneath — and her hair was unbraided and straightened. She looked so uncharacteristically like herself it was a little shocking.

Libba wasn't interested in girls, not really, but she could appreciate a well-cut woman. And Raelle Collar — terrible work ethic and civilian blood notwithstanding — was indeed nice to look at, with her slim but toned figure, her messy blonde hair, and sharp jawline. Perhaps, too, it was the fact that she constantly vexed Abigail that also made her appealing. Libba took great pleasure in Raelle's resolute refusal to fall into line where Abigail was concerned.

It was always nice to see someone else taking Bellweather down a peg for a change.

(If the Reel were to pair Raelle with Libba, she wouldn't particularly mind.)

(She wouldn't mind being paired with Glory right now either, if she was being truthful.)

"Raelle's here alone?" Libba observed casually, sipping her mulled wine. She eyed the Bellweather table. "What about that girl she's always with?"

"Oh, Scylla?" Glory plucked a tiny daffodil off the bouquet array on the table and tucked it behind her ear. "She's really nice. And pretty. But I heard the Necros have some sort of special training tonight, so they can't dance the Reel."

She sighed wistfully. 

Libba suppressed the urge to roll her eyes.

Every time Libba had spotted Raelle and that girl — Scylla, Glory had called her — around campus, she couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed at how openly they mooned over each other. There was no place for romance at Fort Salem. Frankly, too, it was weird. Monogamy wasn't an entirely abstract concept amongst witches, but it wasn't all that common either. And certainly it was unheard of in High Atlantic society, where the only objective of handfastings was to forge alliances and further one's matriline.

Libba didn't particularly care about _that_ , but she was duty-bound, and proud, like any good soldier. She'd produce an heir for the military and keep the Swythe bloodline going.

But as the campus bell tolled the evening hour, all thoughts of military duty and family honor fled her mind. 

She stood, exchanging a grin with Glory.

The Reel awaited.

*

The official story was that a Spree attack occurred at the Bellweather wedding.

That was all Alder or any of their commanding officers had given up in terms of information. The details had been relayed in whispers throughout the platoon. How Abigail's cousin, newly hand-fasted, had been killed. That Abigail and General Bellweather had fought off her attackers, barely managing to escape with their lives. 

It had put everyone in a somber state, gripped with sudden anxiety, suddenly aware of their own mortality.

Abigail was different now.

It was a subtle change. Barely imperceptible. A second of hesitation here, a tiny quiver of her lip there. Silence during training where a snappy remark or a barbed insult would usually be. Things that would have gone unnoticed and unremarked upon if it were anyone else.

But Libba was not anyone else.

She was a High Atlantic. More than that, she was a Swythe. She and Abigail had grown up together their entire lives, loving then hating each other the entire way. Like it or not, Libba _knew_ Abigail — just as well, she supposed, as Abigail knew her. 

And she knew when something was wrong. 

Libba was a Swythe, and Abigail might have been a Bellweather, and thus none of her concern, but it didn't feel right having Abigail be out of sorts. Libba missed her enthusiasm, her fire. Everything that made Abigail so obnoxiously _Abigail_. 

"About Charvel," she began softly, as they stood side-by-side in the bathroom that evening, combing out their wet hair. She met Abigail's gaze in the mirror. "I'm sorry."

It was, perhaps, the most sincere thing she'd ever said to Abigail in all their lives.

A beat passed. The longest second of silence Libba had ever known.

"Thanks," Abigail said quietly, looking away.

She shuffled out the bathroom without a word. 

Libba watched her go.

And, just for a second, she wanted to run after Abigail. Wanted to sweep her up into a hug. To tell the truth — that she was glad Abigail hadn't become another one of the Spree's many casualties. 

But, mercifully, the feeling passed as swiftly as it came.

*

Citydrop, at last.

The final test, one that Libba had both dreaded and eagerly awaited. 

Bright-eyed and clear-headed even after Anacostia had barged into their dorm room and started barking out orders, Libba's blood thrummed with adrenaline. All of her — _theirs_ , because her Unit had been beside her the whole time — hard work would finally bear fruit.

She rallied them with a speech.

"We _cannot_ fail!"

Delphine and Tabitha stomped the floor excitedly, buoyed up by Libba's exuberance.

Even Abigail was impressed.

Libba blinked, caught off-guard by the compliment, then grinned.

This would be _fun._

*

She didn't even have time to think.

She remembered standing her ground with the rest of her platoon, fanned out along the pavement that shimmered with sweltering summer heat. The way her lungs burned from screeching out the Windshear Seed with all her might. The sickening crunch of metal as the Spree truck hit the blast, torn apart into a thousand different pieces from the explosion of the impact.

And then — 

Pain blossomed from her chest, sharp and suffocating.

She found herself knocked back, body skidding along the road. Her skin would have been torn raw, if not for her combat gear. She reached up to loosen the scarf from around her neck. She could barely breathe. The coppery taste of metal flooded her mouth. Staring up at the cloudless sky through a thin film of dust, her hand dropped from her neck to chest.

Her fingers came away wet.

She couldn't lift her hand to look. But she knew. Blood, seeping through her clothes. She could feel it, warm and visceral, rolling down her ribs, thick, along her stomach.

 _It'll be okay_ , she thought. _There are Fixers here —_

Dimly, she heard shouting, but she couldn't make out any voice in particular.

Her body felt so heavy.

And she was so tired.

Pooling blood in her mouth. Down her throat. She coughed wetly, gagging, gasping. Couldn't keep her eyes open.

(Abigail's grin in the plane, not even an hour earlier. 

_Thanks for backing me up._

Warmth bloomed in Libba's chest, bright as a summer day.)

She tried to smile now, remembering.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to [scarromanoff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarromanoff/) for looking this over.


End file.
